


Aurora Borealis and the Apotheosis of Dust

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: The Consolations of Philosophy [11]
Category: Daft Punk, Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Angst, Depressing, Dialogue Heavy, Dystopia, Existential Angst, Existentialism, Literary References, M/M, Madness, Philosophy of Language, Philosophy of Mind, Pre-Movie, Robot Sex, Saussurean Linguistics, Slash, Unreliable Narrator, introspective, philosophical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We become fixed and decay where we stand. </p><p>[Pre-Tron: Legacy, Thomas POV. Masked DJs/Daft Punk slash. Inspired by 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead'.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aurora Borealis and the Apotheosis of Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Tron: Legacy, Tron and all related materials are copyrighted to Disney, and I do not profit from nor claim to represent them. I do not know any of the members of Daft Punk, nor do I make any claim of canonicity/truth about their actual lives through the writing of this piece. This is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from, nor claim to represent, true aspects of their lives in this story.
> 
> I approach the Tron fandom for the first time, and I must admit it - I am _nervous!_ Even this piece I fear is more DP than it is Tron-based, though I will be trying my best. I like to pretend that I can write out complicated philosophical systems sometimes and things like this happen ._.  
>  This story follows Thomas, one half of the Masked DJs, for several millicycles as he slowly turns his gaze to his surroundings: something is going very badly wrong in the Grid, and by extension, his existence within it is becoming more anathemic because he isn’t in a position to fix it.  
> After all, he is just one program. What _can_ he do?
> 
> Please enjoy. This is just the prologue; the actual main body of the piece will update in 2-3 sections at a time.

**Aurora Borealis and the Apotheosis of Dust - A Daft Punk/Tron: Legacy Fanfiction  
**

**\----------------------  
**

**prelude: adagio assai**

Some say that an unhappy world is one that produces no hero.  
It is easy to say that when one is spared affliction. An unhappy land is one that _needs_ a hero. Such is the case in this universe, the Grid, darkened over time and its legendary heroes long since gone. But even then it was a long time ago, far too long for it to have retained meaning, that such a fact does not touch most people deeply. Hardly a _Sinfonia Eroica_ , rather a one-bar tremolo only, soft as a dove's caress; sounding regret and that bittersweet _manqu_ _é_ , adagio for one as noble as Tron.

 _"Blackcurrant cassis, I think."_  
"It'd be better to leave that for later, Gem, my dear. Start off slow. Though it's not as if you ever listen to me."  
"Cassis for me."  
"That again..."

...

How long has this been going on, now?

None of this is new or unexpected, and yet he never gets used to it.  
Thomas sits among a crowd he has long since stopped sympathizing with, on a seat that has remained a stranger to him despite his sitting on it so many times. The area beneath him is dark, with glowing blueish-white lines defining where the boundaries are and who is down below. If he looks straight ahead of him towards the opposite side of the arena (where the other seats are) or if he stares staunchly down the floor, he doesn't need to look at what's going on _down there_ , so that's what he's trying to do right now. This method has had a varied rate of success in the past hundreds of cycles that he's been put through - sometimes the carnage is so brutal that he can't help but watch, even though he always hates himself afterwards - but it's better than nothing. It's a good thing that unlike most programs, Thomas was programmed with the outer appearance of a robot; he doesn't _have_ eyes. It's hard for most people to figure out where exactly his gaze is being directed at, even if he's sitting very still. Considering that he's a well-known and renowned DJ with the support of countless patrons behind him, this ability to deflect stares is _very_ convenient.

Currently he's poised himself so that he looks as if he's paying attention to the match, but really, he's not; here by his feet is the one patch of ground that neither combatant in the arena can reach, and he's staring fixedly down at it and thinking of the Sirens underground, resting frozen and uncaring in their sarcophagi. Every new combatant has the honour of seeing them come to life in front of them, handing them their armour and wishing them a _good luck_ in their blurred-melancholy voices before solemnly returning to their places. Thomas has been fortunate enough to never see the inside of the Armory, and he hopes that this will _always_ be the case, but even then he's _thought_ about it quite often: what it'd be like to be surrounded by the Sirens in their grim magnificence, to meet their piercing stares, mulling over their ambivalent well-wishes to such an extent that he would be ever more motivated to win, just so that he could see them one more time. There is something fatalistic about their demeanour, something that makes it hard for most programs to approach them or even _think_ about them most of the time. For a naive first-timer it would almost seem as if they came to life and fell back into eternal slumber just for their sake, those overwhelming, beautiful harbingers of death.  
Except that'd be wrong. They're fine. Once they're off work, the Sirens are at perfect liberty to edge out of those receptacles and go wherever they wish until they're needed again. Thomas knows, because he often sees them where he works. No one's survived the Games long enough to complain that what they've witnessed is a _lie_ , though, so this entire point might be moot. He's not in a position to tell; it doesn't matter, those reflections help the time go by.

" _Rinz-ler!"_

Life is a zero-sum game in the Grid. One contributes to it, and one takes away from it.  
If one takes away _too much_ from it - and sadly, most of the time this is the case - then the balance must be kept somehow. As much as some of the programs reproduce and flourish, some of the others must be destroyed in turn. The Grid demands it. Thomas briefly plays back the small five-second video he took of Rinzler's opponent, scrutinizing his face closely - young, brown-haired, outwardly nondescript save for the carved lines of his circuits and the fiery glow within them, every last voxel of him tensed in fear. He can't figure out how old this program might be exactly, but whoever they are, they are probably not so old that they can remember a time when the Games weren't a means to an end. A lamentable mess, really.

But then, wasn't this tendency to reach equilibrium woven into the very infrastructure of the Grid? When it was first created, was it not made in the image of _those up above_ , with their own interests and ambitions that were never as noble as they wanted them to be?

(A disc is hurled. It is blue. A commendable effort, too, but that just isn't good enough in this place.)

Haven't they always beaten down those weaker than themselves?

(Rinzler's hand, dark and strong, reaching out to clench around the program's arm.)

Haven't they always torn at each other's throats with equal parts lust and villainy?

(The program crying out, tearing itself free, and Rinzler _letting_ him. The disc is caught.)

Thomas doesn't know, though he doesn't recall that he ever thought of the Users as _brutal_. All he can infer is that if this is the case, things are going exactly as planned. Never mind how it _used_ to be; if this is the only path the Grid could have taken from the moment of its creation, then that's how it is. His nostalgia, and the sense that something has been going wrong _for a long time_ in their world, is nobody's problem but his own.

The only consolation is that he is not entirely alone in his dismay. Next to him, another program is sitting - indeed, the only other program in the Grid with a circuit pattern identical to his, marking the pair of them as belonging to each other. Guillaume Emmanuel, more often 'Guy-Manuel', another DJ and his partner in more than one sense; while he too is clad in a white outfit just like Thomas's own, he is physically a little shorter than the latter, his helmet smoother and suggestive of even _less_ expression that the other's. This has worked greatly to his advantage during their time in the Grid, and today is no different. Whenever they're in the arena, they try to avoid attracting too much attention to themselves. This means that they try to make it through the whole event in complete silence; conversation of any sort could invite an unforseen reaction, or needlessly heightened emotions, and neither of those things are welcome. Naturally, though, this is an unbearable state of affairs, so they've devised _certain_ ways around it.

At that moment, with remarkable fluidity, and with even a measure of what probably looks like languid enjoyment, Guy reaches out to grasp Thomas's hand - first firmly, then with some kind of almost-playful fervor, white fingers tangling together. This will merely look like a lovers' flirtation from afar, or at the very least, the act of two people who are actually _glad_ to be where they are, but to the two DJs it is a signal that one of them wishes to communicate a message. Thomas is immediately alert, casting a quick glance at their surroundings to check that they're not being watched. Soon Guy's grip loosens; as he lowers their hands, he taps out a message in Morse code atop the other's palm, the lightness of his touch a stark contrast to the word.

[ **\- --- .-. - ..- .-. .** ]

Thomas closes his hand over the other's, and squeezes it tight, his visor darkening a shade. _Torture._  
He expected no different, but it hurts every time.

_"Rinz-ler! Rinz-ler!"_

Following what Guy tapped out on his palm, Thomas knows to keep his gaze focused away, though at the same time to not make it too obvious. His optics focus on the man sitting in front of them: call him Castor, call him Zuse, it all depends on what business one approaches him for. Better still, call him the _Manager_ ; that is what he is, first and foremost, to the DJs.  
He is the reason why they're here today. It is mandantory for _all_ programs, once they have been operational on the Grid for a certain length of time, to attend the Games at regular intervals. _Which_ event in particular doesn't matter quite as much, though at least two viewings of each game must be achieved per full cycle. Thomas and Guy would like to go exactly never, but disobeying orders can't mean anything good for themselves - they might be conscripted into the Games themselves for all of that trouble, and _nobody_ wants that. Especially not Castor, who ever so _graciously_ asks them to accompany him to a game every eighty millicycles or so, plainly knowing that he's offering them aid that they can't refuse.

Doubtless he thinks that he's doing them a huge favour - in a way, he is. But the difference between them is that Castor would go regardless of whether he needed to or not. The two DJs only attend under pain of death, and that's literal.

Thomas glances back at his partner. Nothing new to be gained there, Guy is merely watching the scene, and with familiar distaste. That leaves only Castor for him to observe at will, so he goes back to doing so. Castor is a tall man, though not remarkably so, attired in sleek white with a bombastic demeanour and a brutishly mischievous face. His pale eyes are offset by his darkened brows and eyelashes, giving him a curiously uncanny appearance even by the standards of the Grid; in spite of his status, and his unhidden playful cruelty, he has a certain style and charm that cannot be so readily ignored. He carries a curved white cane which he often balances on his lap or twirls around as if to conjure - all in all, a curiously disarming gesture, perhaps endearing in some undefined way. He is merciless without being coarse, kind without being in any way attached, quite beyond definition and proud of it. The taller DJ has many reservations about his manager, but at the same time, if he had to name anybody besides Guy who might feasibly listen to him and grant him certain requests, it is Castor. And the latter has done so, many times, if unconventionally - helping them to fill their quota regarding the Games, for one, and keeping them under his employment for so long. For some inexplicable reason, they have his _willing_ favour, and in likelihood will always have it as long as they remain the way they are.

A hideous grating sound. One red-orange disc spins through the air - flips over and bounces off sharply against the wall in one instant, as gravity changes in a manner more sudden than the norm - and grazes over the ill-fated program's arm, scraping harshly against it. The latter cries out and collapses on his knees, nursing with his one free arm where he has been hurt - but no, he is not merely hurt, he is trying to _hold himself together_ and failing. The hit was severe, but not so much that it resulted in a derez. Rather, something even worse is happening. The cut burns deep and blue even from where Thomas is sitting, spreading slow with crumbling voxels seeping out between the program's fingers until his arm falls off altogether onto the floor.

The crowd screams with delight. Rinzler looks on, indifferent. Castor chuckles quietly, leaning forwards, fingers laced together.

Thomas is so fascinated and horrified that he quite forgets that he's meant to be looking away.

There are so many things about the word 'game' that makes it hard to define. What makes a _game?_  
Must it be played for fun or recreation only, respecting the casual connotations of the word? But that wouldn't do justice to professional competitions, or 'games' with serious stakes, like what is happening in front of them.  
Must it be a competition? That doesn't explain self-amusing means, or mere entertainment, or 'games' of _manipulation_.  
Does a game necessarily have scores or points? Not necessarily. Rules? Not really, no. Some are _entirely_ improvisational, thus devoid of any consistent rule that _all_ games theoretically could have in common.  
No matter how much he thinks about it, there is no one common property that he can refer to that defines a 'game'. Yet what he is seeing is very clearly called one, and treated as one, by the masses. He is trying to understand what about this 'game' is so praiseworthy and entertaining, because for them to be cheering this loudly, for them to come back for more, signals that there is some universal appeal in the whole business. He cannot come up with any himself, which leads him to believe that everyone (save for a very few) is broken or lying - or that _he_ is.

_"Kill - him! Kill - him!"_

Only when he hears the dreaded and familiar chant does Thomas turn his face away. It's blatantly obvious what lies ahead: that program is doomed, he was doomed from the moment when they made him fight only the best combatant in the entirety of the Grid, and everyone watching knows that he would _always_ have been doomed. It has never been any other way. Thomas supposes that when Rinzler is in the arena, he _forces_ whatever event he's participating in to become a 'game' in one particularly crude sense. He is literally _toying_ with this program in front of him, taunting without showing it, humiliating, prolonging his agony for the amusement of others. This tendency is not shown in all combatants, but purely on the enforcer's account _this_ particular match probably could count as a 'game'. But the taller DJ is loath to admit that.

It is not a game. No, between himself and his partner, they do not call it a _game_ , and with good reason.

The _hatred_ rises to a frenzy. Programs from all around are leaping to their feet, shouting as loud as they can, screaming for death. Even Castor's pale face is faintly flushed; he is supporting himself on the cane, both hands clutched atop it, head raised high and trembling slightly as if he were trying to withstand the beating of a tsunami. When there comes a point where _every_ voice is united in the same words - timed exactly right, with no stragglers - he closes his piercing-blue eyes abruptly as if in prayer, the corners of lips tugged upwards in a half-manic smile.

The two DJs stay where they are. Guy's arms are crossed, and he remains staring resolutely ahead as if he hasn't noticed the commotion around him; unlike Thomas he _forces_ himself to watch, it's evident in the rest of his body language. His head might be held high, and outwardly he might have an aura of confidence and/or contempt, but really, it doesn't mean anything. Guy is just as disgusted as Thomas is; he's just more intent to _remember_ it, to impress in his optics every injustice and every struggle so that he can remind himself of the world that they live in. Even if he does not know their names, nor their operating histories, Thomas has no doubt that Guy remembers them as individuals - _incidents_ \- long after everyone has forgotten. Guy has probably long since theorized that _it's what they would have wanted_.

Thomas fears for himself, for his partner.  
One does not make such pacts with the deceased. Not when there could be no utility in it.

_"Kill - him!"_

There are two main _types_ of deresolution in the arena: the one where the disc is retained, and the one where it is not.  
Thomas remembers a time when the former was all there was. This is not the case now. _This_ one isn't coming back ever again. Rinzler has apparently decided that enough is enough, whether due to a command or not, and with no regard to the audience's demands he begins to _run_ full tilt towards his opponent. It is much more like him to be bluntly-efficient in this way; the program doesn't even get to look up at him properly before Rinzler is upon him, bringing his two discs down in a blood-red arc on his shoulders. He throws his head back to scream but all that bursts out of him are _voxels_ , silvery-blue fragments scattering helplessly to the ground; momentarily a bright X-shape is visible upon what remains of his body, marking where Rinzler sliced through him, before the rest of the program completely falls apart. His identity disc rolls to the ground, and with an almost nonchalant flourish the enforcer steps forwards and drops his own disc on it, the cutting edge embedding vertically onto the circular surface and shattering it into pieces.

There is a hushed _silence_ for a moment. All around the arena, the programs stare or blink down at the scene with blank expressions - the execution was more elegantly performed than the usual. But once it sinks in that _yes, an execution has taken place_ , then there comes _the cry_ , a terrible, triumphant sound wrenched from the deepest part of this shared consciousness - almost too high-pitched to be a howl, too strong, involuntary and yet fearless to be a _scream_ , too brutal even to be a cheer. But it is a celebratory noise, no doubt; it's a given that Rinzler has never lost and will not lose for a very long time, if ever, but after each succesive predictable game the cheers only become louder and more desperate, hands and arms outstretched in mixed terror and rapture.

What is the meaning of this contradiction; what are they so happy about that they couldn't figure out beforehand, _what exactly are they cheering for?_ A beast, this crowd; it is a mad beast. For just a tiny moment Thomas dares to lower his head, to grasp it tightly and stressfully in his hands as if he wanted to _do away_ with it forever, shielding his auditory input from the noise. Only Guy sees, and by the time _he_ could do anything about it, the taller DJ has regained some measure of control.  
How gentle, how merciful Rinzler was, compared to _this_ torture!

But eventually it's over. It always is in good time, providing that they can be patient; soon, all around them, _individuality_ returns. The game is over, and the unity amongst the crowd is dissolving slowly, gentle murmurs of private conversation rising towards the surface. Now instead of one boundless entity crying out for release and purification, distinct groups and persons begin to emerge, some standing up to go and some leaning back in their seats to discuss what they saw. The remains have been kicked across the arena, leaving a wide, glittering, bluish streak of voxels for all to see. Rinzler is nowhere to be seen; his throne defended for the umpteenth time, there's no real need for him to stay for the applause. Or perhaps he has another mission to take care of before this current millicycle is over. But that's not what's important for now, that's not what Thomas's anguish is about. His problem lies deeper than that. There is some major confusion regarding how the deceased are treated in the Grid, to say the least. No one mourns, though they _could_.

As he stares at the scattered voxels, Thomas thinks that he _should_ mourn, knowing how unjust the circumstances the program was destroyed in were, but he cannot; he never knew the derezzed program personally, there's not much to be said in the way of an eulogy. What could he even say? ' _Hey, you put up a good fight'_?

He doesn't know that, though, he wasn't even watching properly until the end. _Guy_ was, but there's very little point asking him; he does not watch the Games to judge _how good_ the doomed programs were at fighting back. If anything, his partner would be grossly offended upon being asked such a question. It's not that Guy's _adverse_ to discussing the horrors that they get exposed to, but it's best that he keep that one to himself, at least until they're out of here and are safely alone together. So ultimately Thomas ends up saying nothing and indicating nothing, just like how it has been for the last few dozen times they've attended the Games.

Castor stands up from the front row once the crowd begins to thin out. As he steps forwards and joins the ranks of those who are leaving, he smiles and beckons to them with one elegant gloved hand; they are to follow. Immediately Guy rises from his seat, Thomas following close behind, and they make their way towards Castor. The taller DJ spares once last glance towards the floor of the arena, and _some_ kind of emotion finally wells within him - but expressing it, alas, to no avail.

_Sorry you ended up as cubes on the floor, or something. It's a pity things turned out this way.  
Better luck next time, eh? End of line. _

He supposes that's why he's having trouble empathizing. A _next time_ is actually possible in the Grid.  
Death is utterly final; _deresolution,_ the physical condition at least, is somewhat less so, even though the terms are often used interchangably. Sometimes, if the program served an important purpose before being conscripted to the Games, or if what they allegedly did was _so_ dastardly that one derez wasn't enough, they are rebooted to either resume their duties or to fight once more. Even if this doesn't happen, occasionally the Users - somewhere out there - put an improved version back in place of the derezzed original. (Not that anybody can make that observation out loud. Users are an awkward topic nowadays.) They never go on to be quite the same when they return, having been created from a previous restore point; so in a way, the _exact kind of persons_ the derezzed programs used to be are gone forever, they are irrevocably 'dead'. But they _are_ close enough, so close that everyone forgets after a while. Death is plentiful and cheap. One can become numb to _anybody's_ suffering if they witness it enough.

He doesn't know if _Guy_ mourns or regrets any of this. But he probably does, and that's some small comfort.

As the crowd files out Thomas catches snatches of the surrounding conversation. He and Guy have so little interest in those events that they're usually unaware of who fought and how they ended up in the arena in the first place; they don't care to find out before they arrive, so it is only when they're _leaving_ that they can gain some belated context as to why things had to turn out that way. It just happens to be the case that they're often accompanied back to the club by Gem, and being a Siren, _she's_ highly aware of who the combatants in a certain game are and how they ended up there. "... part of the resistance," she is saying, with no particular care for who might be listening nearby. Castor offers her his arm and she takes it as they all wait for the Recognizer, continuing to explain without pause or any comment on his actions. "he's just the first one who got caught. There's an entire group of them just waiting their turn now... causing the blackouts in the north end of the city, would you believe..."

"Oh, he had it _coming_ , then," Castor says with a dismissive wave of his cane, already sounding bored. His favourite combatants are those who signed up to the Games _willingly_ , even if he knows all too well that they'll never win. If anything, it's the corrupted programs or the criminals who are more likely to reach the higher tiers, as they fight with genuine desperation and violent anguish every step of the way. Thomas has reflected on this tendency of Castor's quite often, and has concluded that something about the man's _own_ vivacious, twistedly-joyful personality probably factors into it. As self-absorbed as he can be, Castor is in one way a generous patron of the arts, and the idea of somebody who would priotitize creating an authentic spectacle even over their lives would appeal to him greatly. Being artistically inclined, Thomas might have admired that under different circumstances, but not today. Castor's attitude pinpoints something very troubling about the way people think about the Games.

The DJs have no stance regarding the resistance movements. From their genesis, they were affliated with neutral ground, and they've never budged from that. They create music, hold some appreciation for the fact that they exist, and work for the benefit of anybody who comes to hear them. So it is possible for Thomas to think that while the derezzed program showed admirable spirit in doing what he did, and fighting with all his courage against Rinzler, it would also be a denial of that same spirit to not acknowledge that he paid the price for the choices he freely made. That price was extracted from him, however, in a completely misguided way.

Yes, that program had it coming.  
Yes, Rinzler killed him, and without effort.  
But Rinzler did not kill him _because_ he had it coming. The thought never crossed the enforcer's mind, of that Thomas is very sure. He wouldn't say that Rinzler thought nothing at all, and if they'd met outside the arena, he likely _would_ have killed that program as direct response to the latter being a criminal; but that wasn't what happened here. The Disc Wars are not merely platforms for show executions - they are first and foremost a form of _entertainment_ , featuring combatants who are there for all kinds of reasons, who may not even have made a single wrong choice during the entirety of their operating period. (Before they chose to sign up for the games, of course; _that_ is an objectively horrible decision.) Rinzler has killed many, but he does not do so _for the reason_ that he wishes to punish wrongdoing; no, he killed that program as per rules of a game, and that was his only concern. To conflate that as a reason to justify the Games - to think that _because_ the Disc Wars helps to keep down the criminal population, it must be allowed, or that it is a force of good - is terrible logic, but that's what most people in the Grid seem to think, anyway. Perversion of justice.

 _Sickening._ Guy's right hand clenches into a fist, and relaxes just as quickly. Thomas reaches out and takes his hand, linking their fingers together, hoping to reassure. It works for now.

The Recognizer takes them straight to the club. The DJs make straight for their booth as soon as they step inside, too perturbed to stay and make conversation with anyone else; nothing short of distracting themselves via music will solve this one. Out of formal politeness, Guy does display a brief [BONJOUR] on his screen the moment he looks up to see the Sirens, who have arrived ahead of them and are now relaxing by the sofas, each with a drink in hand.

" _Bon-jourrr_ ," they chorus loudly upon seeing him, waving at him eagerly and making a few other patrons look around. When Guy turns away, a series of blue-LED slashes indicating a blush spreading quickly across his screen, they giggle appreciatively and watch them as they hurry into the booth. For a performer, Guy _really_ doesn't like being put on the spot, or being the center of attention.

Thomas used to tease him about that, a long time ago. Nowadays he is wiser. They both are.

The booth is well-equipped, larger than it looks, with one large window looking out onto the dance floor. They haven't been open for long, so customers are still trickling in, and those who come this early are generally there for the company or the drinks more than the music. Behind all their trusty equipment it's Thomas who gets the quicker handle on what to do first, and soon they're pumping out something relatively sedate to get the atmosphere going; with a gesture from Guy, the lights dim just a little more around the dance floor, and Castor (passing by) gives them a quick glance of approval before heading towards the bar. "Here for the full millicycle, I hope?" he says to Gem, who's leaning forwards and gazing at all the bottles behind the bar; there is little interest in her gaze until she hears him, at which point she gives him a mysterious smile and nod. "what an honour. Let me, if you could."

"Dar _ling_ ," Gem reciprocates, holding out her hand for him to kiss. This is the point where unpredictability ends; sad, but true. It's always the same routine. Thomas can imagine it unfolding it front of him with near perfection, and as disappointed as he is, he can't help but quietly follow along. Beyond the booth's window he hears Castor's barely-stifled laugh, more cynical than genuine, as he and Gem talk in hushed voices about something or other - then they turn to the bartender in unison, Castor asking for something 'light and celebratory' before offering to pay for his companion's drink. "Ah, me? Blackcurrant cassis, I think."

Cassis is generally drunk after a few lighter drinks of energy have already been had. Castor is well aware of this, and tries to dissuade her gently, resting his hand alongside hers. "It'd be better to leave that for later, Gem, my dear. Start off slow," but he stops there and tilts his head to the side, sounding bemused. Not only is he aware of the conventions of energy drinking, he is also acutely aware of who actually _cares_ for such rules and follows them. Gem does not fit that bill. "... though it's not as if you ever listen to me."

Gem smiles broadly at him, half daring, half charmed, completely non-yielding. Thomas silently recites along with the Siren as she repeats her request, the way she has done for countless millicycles now. "Cassis for me."

"That again."

But Castor does nothing to stop her. He never has done. A glass clinks as it is set down on the surface of the bar; she takes up the violet liquid and swirls it gently, taking one long elegant sip that leaves no mark on the glass; he gazes at her, smiles enigmatically, and together they make their way down and across the dance floor towards the far end of the club, greeting guests as they go.

And the music begins once more...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are notes for this chapter, but I have a feeling that these are going to get obscenely long.  
> I will do a shameless _Pierrot Lunaire_ and stick them all at the end of the story - or you can read the prelude notes in the [FF.net](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11110906/1/Aurora-Borealis-and-the-Apotheosis-of-Dust) posting, too.


End file.
